The Riddle Of The Third Mile (21 page)

It was at that very point in his whirling thoughts that Morse had jerked himself up in his bed, switched on the bedside lamp, and reached for the only object of comfort that the sombre room could offer him: the Gideon Bible that rested there beside the lamp. In two minutes his fumbling and excited fingers had found what he was seeking. There it was- St Matthew, Chapter Five, Verse Forty-One: ‘And whosoever shall compel thee to go a mile, go with him twain.’ He remembered vividly from his youth a sermon on that very text-from a wild, Welsh minister: The Religion of the Second Mile’. And it was with the forty watt bulb shedding its feeble light over the Gideon Bible that Morse smiled to himself in unspeakable joy, like one who has travelled on a longer journey still – that third and final mile…

‘In two minutes we shall be arriving at Oxford station,’ came the voice over the microphone. ‘Passengers for Banbury, Birmingham, Charlbury…’ Morse looked at his watch: 10:1 a.m. No need for any great rush now-no need for any rush at all. He walked from the station up to the bus-stop in Cornmarket; and at 11.30 was back at Police HQ in Kidlington, where a relieved-looking Lewis awaited him.

‘Good time, sir?’

‘Marvellous!’ said Morse, seating himself in the black leather chair and beaming benignly. ‘We expected you back yesterday.’

‘ “We”? Who’s that supposed to mean?’

‘The super was after your blood last night, sir-and this morning.’

‘Ah, I see.’

‘I said you’d ring him as soon as you got in.’

Morse dialled Strange’s number immediately. Engaged. ‘How about you, Lewis? You have a good time?’

‘I don’t know, sir. There’s
this.’

He handed over the postcard he had picked up the previous I evening from Lonsdale, and Morse looked down at a glossy photograph of ancient stones. He turned the card over, and read that such crumbling masonry was nothing less than the remains of the royal palace of Philip II of Macedon (382-336 BC). Then he saw the large Hellas stamp, featuring sea shells set against a blue-green background; then the message, neatly penned and very brief: ‘Wonderful weather. Any mail to Cambridge Way. Staying on a further week. Regards to the Master-and to your good selves. G.W.’

‘Lovely place, Greece, Lewis.’

‘I wouldn’t know, I’m afraid.’

‘Perhaps Westerby doesn’t know either,’ said Morse slowly

‘Pardon, sir?’

‘You’d better keep it, of course-but he’s not in Greece. It’s; forgery-you can see that, surely!’

‘But-’

‘Look, Lewis! Look at that franking.’ Lewis looked closely but saw little more than a blackened circle, with whatever lettering there may have been so smudged that it was quite illegible. He could, though, just about decipher one or two of the letters: there was an “O” (certainly) and: “N” (possibly) near the beginning of one word, and the next word probably ended in an “E”. But he could make nothing of it, and looked up to find that Morse was smiling still.

‘I shouldn’t take too much notice of it, Lewis. It’s not too difficult to get hold of a Greek postage-stamp, is it? And then if you get a date-stamp and push it vaguely one way instead of banging it straight down you’ll get the same sort of blur as that. You see, someone just brought the card into the Lodge and left it handily upon a pile of mail. It’s all a fake! And, if you like, I’ll tell you where the date-stamp comes from: it comes from
Lonsdale College.’

The phone rang before Lewis could make any answer, and a harsh voice barked across the line: ‘That you, Morse? Get over here-and get over here quick!’

‘I think you’re in the dog-house,’ said Lewis quietly.

But Morse appeared completely unconcerned as he rose to his feet and put his jacket on.

‘I’ll tell you something else about that card, Lewis. We know a man, don’t we, who’s been writing a book about our Mister Philip Two of Macedon-remember?’

Yes, Lewis did remember. Just as Morse had done, he’d seen the typescript on the desk in Browne-Smith’s room, as well as the pile of postcards that had lain beside it. And, as Morse walked across to the door, he felt annoyed and disappointed with himself. There was one thing Morse hadn’t mentioned, though.

‘Is the handwriting a fake as well, sir?’

^‘
I haven’t the faintest idea,’ replied Morse. ‘Why don’t you go and find out, if you can? No rush, though. I think the super and I may well be in for rather a longish session.’

‘Siddown, Morse!’ growled Strange, his long gaunt face set grimly and angrily. ‘I heard last night-and again this morning – from the Metropolitan Commissioner.’ His eyes fixed Morse’s as he continued. ‘It seems that a member of my force-
you
Morse!-was witness to a major crime in London yesterday; that you left the scene of this crime without adequate explanation and in defiance of normal police procedures; that you allowed the only other witness of this crime to go off home – God! – a home incidentally which doesn’t exist; that you then went off to see a woman up in North London to tell her that her husband had just been murdered; and if all that’s not enough,’ the blood was rising in his face, ‘you couldn’t even get the name of the bloody corpse right!’

Morse nodded agreement, but said nothing.

‘You realize, don’t you, that this is an extremely serious matter?’ Strange’s voice was quieter now. ‘It won’t be in my hands, either.’

‘No, I understand that. And you’re right, of course-it’s a very serious matter. The only thing is, sir, I don’t think that even you quite understand how desperately serious it is.’

Strange had known Morse for many years and had marvelled many times at the exploits of this extraordinary and exasperating man. And there was something about the way in which Morse had just spoken that signalled a warning. It would be wise for him to listen, he knew that.

So he listened.

It was more than two hours later when Strange’s middle-aged secretary saw the door open and the two men emerge. Earlier she had been informed that, short of a nuclear explosion, her boss was not to be disturbed; and she did know a little (how not?) of the reason for Morse’s summons from on high. Yet now she saw that it was Strange’s face which looked, of the two, the more drained and set; and she bent her head a little closer to the clattering keys, as if her presence there might cause embarrassment. The two men had said nothing more to each other, she was sure of that-except that Strange had murmured a muted ‘Thank you’ as Morse had walked across the room. Then, after Morse was gone, and just before her boss had closed his office door, she thought she heard him speak once more: ‘My God!’

Two days after the events described in the previous chapter, a man looked about him with extreme circumspection before inserting one of his keys into the door at the rear entrance of the luxury fiats in Cambridge Way. The coast was clear. Apart from the uniformed police constable standing outside the front entrance, he guessed (and guessed correctly) that at last he was alone. He moved silently up the carpeted staircase and let himself into the room that faced the first landing; there was just one thing he had to do. Once inside the flat he fixed his rather ancient hearing-aid into his right ear (exactly as he’d done three days before), nicked over the lock on the Yale (a precaution he’d earlier omitted to take), and took from his pocket a newly purchased screwdriver-a larger, shinier, more effective instrument than the one which had bored its way through Gilbert’s spine. He’d known the truth, of course, on that previous visit; known it immediately he’d entered the main sitting-room. For, although the crates seemed all (quite properly) still unopened, from the mantelpiece Mercator’s head had stared at him accusingly…

After performing his grisly task-it took him only a few minutes-he retraced his steps to the rear entrance and let himself out into the bright afternoon sunlight, where he promptly hailed a taxi. He saw the driver’s eyes flick to the mirror as his hearing-aid began to oscillate; so he turned off the volume and took it out. It had served its purpose well today, and he put it away and sought to relax as the taxi threaded its way through the heavy traffic. But his mind could give him little rest… If only on that terrifying day… But no! Awaiting Gilbert had been an almost certain early retribution. Money! That was all that Gilbert had demanded – then more money. An odd compulsion (as it appeared to the man in the taxi); certainly when compared with the motivations that dominated his own life – the harbouring of inveterate hatreds, and the almost manic ambition, sometimes so carefully concealed, for some degree of worldly fame.

‘Here we are, sir: Paddington.’

Why Paddington? Why not Euston, or Victoria, or Liverpool Street? Why
any
railway station? Perhaps it was the anonymity of such a place-a place at which he could deposit the burden of his sin that lay so heavily in the supermarket carrier-bag he tightly clutched as he walked through the swing doors of the Station Hotel and turned right to the gentlemen’s toilet. No one else was there, and he closed the door behind him in the furthest of the cubicles that faced the open pissoir. Here, he lifted the plastic ring of the lavatory seat, climbed on to the circular fixture and lifted the covering of the porcelain cistern. But the water-filled cavity was far too narrow-and suddenly he was jerked into a frozen stillness, for he heard the door-catch click in a nearby cubicle. Something had to be done quickly. He felt inside the carrier-bag and took out a flat package wrapped round with a copy of
The Times-
a package which, judging from its shape, might have held two sandwiches, and which now plopped into the water and sank immediately to the bottom of the cistern.

Still carrying the bulk of his burden, he walked out of the hotel into the main-line station, where he drifted aimlessly about until he saw the planks and scaffolding at the furthest end of Platform One. He made his way slowly along this platform, intermittently turning his eyes upwards to take in Brunei’s magnificent wrought-iron roof that arched above him. He had already seen the skip-half-full of building rubble and general rubbish… Apart from a solitary orange-coated workman a few yards up the line, he was alone. Suddenly turning, he dropped his bag into the skip and sauntered back towards the unmanned ticket-barrier. He would have enjoyed a pot of searing hot tea and a buttered scone in the cool lounge of the Station Hotel, but he dared not trust himself. He was shaking visibly and the sweat was cold upon his forehead. It was time to return to base, to lie down awhile, to tell himself that the task he’d so much dreaded was now accomplished-if not accomplished well.

Crossing over Praed Street, he walked down to the bottom of Spring Street and entered a small hotel just off to the left. No one was on duty at the reception-desk, and he lifted the hinged board, took his key (Number 16) off its wall-hook, and climbed the stairs. Although he had now been in the same hotel for many days, he still felt some hesitation about which way up the key went in; and again, now, he fiddled and scraped a bit before opening the door and admitting himself to the small but neatly furnished room. He took off his jacket, placed it at the bottom of the single bed, wiped his forehead with a clean white handkerchief from the antique wardrobe-and experienced a vast relief at finding himself safely back in this temporary home. The Gideon Bible, in its plum-coloured boards, still lay on the table beside the pillow; the window, as he had left it, was still half-open, providing easy access (he was glad of it!) to the fire-escape that zigzagged down the narrow side of the hotel to the mean-looking courtyard below. Turning round, he saw that the door to the wash-room was open, too, and he promised himself (but in a little while) a cool and guilt-effacing shower.

For the moment he lay down on top of the coverlet, with that curious amalgam of elation that springs from defiance of danger and knowledge of accomplishment. As a boy, he’d known it when climbing Snowdon with a Scout troup: for all the other boys, the route alongside one precipitous face had seemed a commonplace occurrence-yet for himself a source of great and secret pride… It was strange that he should only have experienced that marvellous elation again so very late in life, and then so often in such a short period of time… He closed his eyes, and almost moved his mind towards some neutral gear, untroubled, disengaged…

But only a minute later his body was jarred into panic-stricken dread. Someone was standing over him; someone who said ‘Good afternoon’-and nothing more.

‘You!
You!’

His eyeballs bulged in fear and incredulous surprise, and if either of these emotions could be said to have been in the ascendant, perhaps it was that of surprise. But even as he cowered upon the coverlet, the packing twine was cutting deep into his neck; and soon his frantic spluttering and croaking grew quieter and quieter-until it was completely stilled. So died George Westerby, late Scholar and Senior Fellow of Lonsdale College in the University of Oxford.

It was 9.50 a.m. the following morning when the winsome receptionist looked up from her desk and took the room-key.

‘Nice morning again, Mr Smith?’

He nodded and smiled-that distinctively lop-sided smile of his. Since he’d been there, she’d almost always been on duty in the mornings; often, too, in the evenings, when she’d taken his order for an early-morning pot of tea-and also for
The Times.